Easter came with heavy tidings for Corner Cottage. Nothing life-altering, I should say, but a smart blow to the goolies of certain dearly held hopes, that’s for sure. I think hope will recover; time heals all wounds and hope springs eternal. That sort of thing.

The issue was that one of my very very fave musicians of all time, Elvis Costello, postponed his Australian tour. And we had tickets! We had booked Archie into his favourite rural retreat, booked suitable accommodation for ourselves, and made luncheon plans with friends.

And then – nothing. No bespectacled bardolatry to be had. That, and the onset of distinctly wintry weather, occasioned a period of prime grumpiness and comfort drinking.

The first time I saw this artiste — or became aware of his existence — was on TV. During my conservative, cultural sanctions-restricted upbringing, many cultural phenomena passed us by simply because the censors wouldn’t allow them to be imported. Get this — I’d never heard of Bob Marley until he played Zimbabwe’s independence celebrations in 1980.

But for some inexplicable reason, late at night on (I think) a Sunday, our national broadcaster would show an anarchic show called the Kenny Everett Video Show. Everett was a superb radio DJ, and alongside his riotous adventures into visual media, he always had fantastic musicians as guests. And one night it was Elvis Costello, singing ‘Oliver’s Army‘ with is outstanding band, The Attractions. I loved it.

I received full access to Declan McManus’ (for that is his real name) works as a student, living in the hothouse atmosphere of men-only college residence. After lunch and dinner there was a statutory ‘noise hour’ when everyone repaired to their room and blasted out their music.

This concentration of young, hip fellows constituted the perfect platform for exchanging music. In those pre-digital days, this was mainly done by tape-to-tape copying – remember that?

One friend had a vast collection which he shared generously. Thanks to him, I discovered not just Declan, but Tom Waits, the Dead Kennedys, Violent Femmes and many others.

Of course, as is the way of things, some of these songs became soundtracks to aspects of our lives. A communal houseful of committed antiapartheid campaigners of my acquaintance was much wedded to reggae-based film noir ditty ‘Watching the Detectives‘, having been subject to both overt and covert Security Police scrutiny over the years.

And during the long, lonely days and nights of achingly slow dissertation-creation, I would motivate myself into my study to the tune of ‘Everyday I Write the Book‘. This song’s not about actually writing a book of course — it’s a metaphor for a lover’s painstaking recollection of the minutiae of a failed relationship.

Chapter One: We didn’t really get along
Chapter Two: I think I fell in love with you
You said you’d stand by me in the middle of Chapter Three

But you were up to your old tricks in Chapters Four
Five and Six.

That’s some good versifying right there — and propelled by swoopy fretless bass and some sublime backing vocals, it’s a better piece than the “bad Smokey Robinson song” our Declan dismissed it as.

Truth be told, much of the man’s early success was built on his sneery disappointed-lover persona, typified in ‘Alison‘, ‘This Year’s Girl‘, and ‘I Want You‘. Strangely enough, like Bob Dylan before him, he’s really good at doing jealousy and bitterness. Here’s some primo resentful incel:

Oh it’s so funny to be seeing you after so long, girl.
And with the way you look I understand
That you are not impressed.
But I heard you let that little friend of mine
Take off your party dress.
I’m not going to get too sentimental
Like those other sticky valentines,
Cause I don’t know if you’ve been loving somebody.
I only know it isn’t mine.

Given Declan’s compendious range of genres and styles and his numerous collaborations, there have been endless debates among the cognoscenti about whether he has sold out, fallen off his pedestal, jumped the shark. But I’ve always liked listening to him — and I had heard he was stupendous live.

When I made my way to the UK in 1992, I had three resolutions: to run a big-city marathon, see Declan in concert, and write a bestselling novel. Well, in the words of a very different performer, two out of three ain’t bad. In 1995 my mate Patrick and I ran the London Marathon — and in 2003 my other mate Matthew and I saw Declan perform at the Royal Festival Hall with Attractions keyboard whizz Steve Nieve.

It was great — a lot of the new stuff was about his new relationship, but the duo threw in enough of the oldies to make it a well-worthwhile trip South of the Water.

Many years later, another opportunity arose, in another worthy waterfront theatre — this time, the 2016 ‘Detour‘ ah . . . tour at Singapore’s Esplanade Theatre — a prickly venue for a prickly performer.

Maybe it was the smaller room, the outstanding acoustics, or the skilfully curated material, but this was a captivating gig. Declan built a narrative based on key songs and short monologues about his craft as an entertainer. It was all ‘unplugged’ he played guitar, he played piano, he sang a capella. At one point he plunked on a ukulele. And a key element of the tale he told was his father, himself a singer and band-leader.

Ross McManus even performed at the Royal Variety Show — the same one where John Lennon, still with the Beatles, memorably instructed the audience, “The people in the cheaper seats, clap your hands. And the rest of you, just rattle your jewellery.” Declan used a large “Lupe-O-Tone” TV to show video of Ross singing. It’s intriguing: how the son resembles his father; how he differs from him — like all of us.

But this didn’t come across as another case of Daddy Issues: he told funny stories and made wry observations — it was like having a drink on a Sunday evening with a good mate as they reminisce with you.

I have to confess I’m something of a pushover when it comes to live music. To see someone pick up a guitar and crank out a whole song without hesitating or getting it wrong seduces me every time. So at the end of the concert, when Declan encouraged the audience to shout out the songs they wanted to hear, and he just played them . . . it was brilliant! By his own reckoning, he’s recorded 667 of them, after all.

This gig convinced me that some popular artists can transcend the ‘soundtracks to our lives’ narrative. I think Declan is one of these — and I look forward to showing up at Sydney Opera House when the postponed concert is held. It’ll be the third for me, on a third continent — and I’m confident it’ll be even better than the last two.